


Firelight

by Aegiswarrior



Series: You can't go home again [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: CF Route, F/F, does talking about the concept of duty count as homoerotic, mentioned glenn - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25236253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegiswarrior/pseuds/Aegiswarrior
Summary: Someone joins her by the fire. Ingrid glances up long enough to recognise the dark red of her dress, the jewellery that catches the light and traps it.“Can’t sleep?” Dorothea asks her softly.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Series: You can't go home again [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828210
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	Firelight

The firelight is bright enough for Ingrid to polish her sword, rubbing an old rag along its side until it picks up every scattered piece of light thrown by the fire. It’s new, and Ingrid is still getting adjusted to the thought of a sword that is hers, and not just on loan from her brothers, her friends, or the monastery. She’s used to weapons that were forged for someone else, not one that fits her hand like she was born with it, one that has her name carved into the blade. Most of her name.

A gift from Edelgard. They don’t have knights in the Empire, not to the extent that they do in the Kingdom, but they held a similar ceremony to officialise Ingrid joining the Imperial army. It had been just as full of vows of loyalty, of reminders of duty, as Ingrid had always imagined a knighthood ceremony would be. Even if that ceremony was more to ensure Ingrid’s shifted loyalties would stay true.

Ingrid wonders what her father, her brothers, or even Dimitri would think if they had been able to see her then. Kneeling on cold stone in front of the Emperor they hated, kissing her armoured knuckles, and letting her place Aymr on her shoulders, the gigantic axe centimetres away from her throat. Hearing the bastardisation of a knightly vow that Ingrid had made, casting aside the ties that should have bound her, promising herself to Edelgard instead. To a woman waging war on her homeland, the church, and the man who should have been her king. Ingrid can still feel the cold of Edelgard’s steel armour against her lips like a brand.

Did Glenn feel any of this, she wonders. Did swearing his vows make him feel strong, feel secure in his place in the world, his purpose? Or did they only cut something out of his heart forever, leave him lost? Sometimes she wishes she could still ask him, that she had someone around to make such things clear.

But even thinking of him for a moment makes the guilt rise back up. Would Glenn understand why she's here, why she chose to follow a woman like Edelgard, first against her own house and then against her own kingdom, her prince, her family? Would her twisted thoughts on honour convince him, would he be swayed by Edelgard's passion for a new dawn, or would blood and birth mean more?

Would he too name her traitor, she wonders? The thought hurts more than any blade.

How naive Ingrid had been, imagining herself as some gallant knight, sworn to someone perfect, someone righteous, someone worth serving.

No perfect lord exists. There are only shades of grey, balancing acts that must be preserved at all costs lest they fall apart at the seams. Ingrid wonders what her younger self would think of her now, if her dreams of glory would blind her to the reasons why Ingrid chose this path, why she decided to raise a blade against the very kingdom she had once wanted to devote herself too.

Someone joins her by the fire. Ingrid glances up long enough to recognise the dark red of her dress, the jewellery that catches the light and traps it.

“Can’t sleep?” Dorothea asks her softly.

“No.” Ingrid says. Her sword is clean, sharpened and polished to a satisfying gleam. In truth, it had reached that point a good hour ago. But she needed something to focus on, and watching the shifting flames had done nothing but make her feel restless.

There’s a pause. Ingrid glances up, expecting to see Dorothea looking at her. She used to catch her looking all the time, back when they were in the academy. But Dorothea is staring into the fire, only turning away to pick up a long stick to prod at the embers.

“Do you mind if I stay?” Dorothea asks, still not looking at her. “It’s warmer here.”

“Of course not.”

It’s quiet. That’s what presses on Ingrid’s mind, that Dorothea, who is normally so smooth, who can start a conversation with anyone, can even be so silent.

“I’m sure Edie will be glad to see you taking care of that sword.” Dorothea says, finally.

“In the Kingdom, having the monarch gift you a sword would make you a knight.” Ingrid says. “It’s not the same. But it’s my duty to take care of it, regardless.”

“Duty. Right.” Dorothea says. Ingrid looks up at her, tries to read her expression. Her eyes are unfocused, and in the flittering light she just looks tired. “Is there a price duty won’t ask us to pay?”

Ingrid stalls in her movement. She looks down at her sword. It’s a pretty thing. Well made, with a cross guard forged to look like an eagle in mid-flight. Duty would ask her to keep this by her side, to polish it, keep it safe. But duty would also ask her to kill with it, to prove all her traitorous vows true.

Glenn had had a sword like this too. Had kept it safe, maintained it, killed with it. He’d also died with it in his hands, lost it into the dust.

Ingrid swallows hard. “I don’t know.” She says. “Glenn used to say-” She cuts herself off. Has she ever even mentioned Glenn to Dorothea? It’s strange to imagine discussing him with someone who never even knew him. For him to not exist as his own person, but as someone else’s memory. “Glenn used to say that it wasn’t for him to question things like that.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I used to. Now I don’t know.” Ingrid meets Dorothea’s gaze. There’s something intense there that makes her shiver, like Dorothea is cutting through skin and bone to see at her heart.

“What was Glenn like?” Dorothea asks. “I’ve heard you, Felix and Sylvain mention him but I still don’t know what he was like.” She pauses, seeing Ingrid freeze. “I’m sorry if that’s too personal.”

“Glenn was…” Ingrid starts. Her throat feels to dry to speak. What was Glenn. Does she tell Dorothea the bare facts, the things she could learn from a trip to the library? Is that what Glenn was, nothing more than the firstborn son of a noble lord, a boy knighted years before the norm, killed with so many others in a tragedy? What else was he, if not that? Her fiancé? The knight she dreamed of being, in the days when her swords were made of wood and not steel?

“I don’t know how well I ever truly knew him.” Ingrid forces herself to say. “I remember one Glenn, but Felix another, and even Sylvain knew someone else.” Ingrid tries to make herself continue, tries to force something kinder out of her lips. But her first few words feel like a betrayal, like digging a dead man up from his grave only to stab him again. _I don’t know if I ever knew him. A stranger in life, an untouchable legend in death. A fleeting memory, a name with more weight than breath should._ It feels cruel to say. She opens her mouth again, and something slips out of her before she can stop it. “I was never sure if I wanted to love Glenn or be him. Now I can’t have either.”

Ingrid can see pity start to twist onto Dorothea’s face, and she snaps her mouth shut before anything else can sneak out. She stands, finds Dorothea’s pack, and the sheathed sword lying beside it.

“Do you mind if I polish this too?” She asks. “While I’m already cleaning mine.”

Dorothea just nods.

It’s quiet. Quiet outside, but loud inside her head. Honesty is admirable, she thinks, but this pushes it beyond the boundary. She blames the late hour, the lingering adrenaline of the battle early that kept her awake but drained away all her common sense. She can focus on her work at least. Dorothea’s sword is less fancy than hers, but no less deadly. She obviously takes care of it though, and there’s little for Ingrid to do but polish it.

She doesn’t notice Dorothea move until she has dropped down beside her.

Dorothea’s hand touches her arm for just a moment. “Thanks for telling me.” She says.

Ingrid just hums. She continues her movement, of cloth against steel, no longer looking at the sword. The repetition is soothing, lets her drift away for a moment, staring into the embers. The night turns her into a fool, she thinks, makes her ask questions that would be better off buried within her heart forever.

Dorothea’s hand returns, lingers this time. “It’s hard,” she starts, carefully, “losing someone so young.”

_Oh_ , Ingrid thinks. This isn’t a difficult puzzle to solve. The answer lies in the obvious, in the words left unsaid.

“I know.” Ingrid says. She stays still, like Dorothea is a bird that will be frightened off if she moves too fast.

She’s not. But her hands are warm, and it has been so long since someone touched her so gently.

It’s not knightly, to want someone to comfort you in the middle of the night. It’s not knightly to badmouth the dead either. But Ingrid is not a knight, not really. Maybe she can be flawed.

Maybe she can be selfish.

“Can you stay a moment longer?” Ingrid asks, softly.

It’s not begging. It’s not. But it sounds desperate regardless.

Dorothea’s grip on her arm tightens.


End file.
